


The Red Ridge

by Mamaorion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom John, Comfort, M/M, Mabinogion, No mention of Mary, On a case, One bed at the inn, Panic Attack, Parentlock, Post S4, Rambling, Remembering their first time, Rescuing John, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut lite, Snowdon, Top Sherlock, night train, sherlock POV, soothing John's nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-07 06:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12835620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamaorion/pseuds/Mamaorion
Summary: Four years into their relationship post s4, Sherlock reminisces the case in Snowdonia that finally brought he and John together... with help from a perilous murder scene investigation, a terrible nightmare, and a forgotten violin.If you've read The Forgotten Violin, this is the long-promised alternate telling, in full!**Complete





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sits at the center of concentric rings of paper arranged on the carpet, barefoot in soft pajamas and the indigo-blue dressing gown John gave him three birthdays ago. Eyes skipping between the pages, fingers tented before his lips, a pattern begins to form in his mind’s eye, a half-notion –

A thump from down the hall snaps him out of his reverie. Rising soundlessly to his feet, senses alert, he pads quickly across the carpet of the sitting room, stepping carefully between the papers.

Another thump, louder, as if a kick has been aimed at the wall of his old bedroom.

He rests his ear against the wood of the door for several heartbeats, then turns the knob very slowly to prevent the old metal from creaking.

In the dim night-light-lit gloom, Sherlock can make out disarray – clothes strewn about, a window open to the warm night air. He catches his breath and rushes in. Tangled in the blankets, Rosie lies sideways, sprawled half out of bed, face pressed against the rug, asleep. One small bare foot thumps against the wall, her limbs twitching beneath the wave of a nightmare.

Sherlock scoops up the limp five-year-old with a muttered ‘ooph’ – she somehow weighs five times more when she’s asleep. Her wispy blond hair tickles his face as he gently settles her back onto the mattress, not bothering with the blanket – she’ll just kick it off. In Rosie’s room, blankets are only for cave forts, or nests for the furry animals, but John still covers her up at bedtime each night. Sprawled on the galaxy-patterned sheet, her eyelids squeeze and teeth grind as she fights some nocturnal foe. The jut of her jaw makes her look just like John.

Sherlock finds his violin on the top of her bookshelf and begins to play Brahms. After only a few measures, Rosie sighs the shuddering breath of dream’s end and settles into a deeper, quieter sleep-state. He continues, but the playing become softer, slower, until the last note drifts off into silence. He places the violin and bow back onto her bookshelf and bends over his sleeping daughter’s face, lightly kissing her sweaty brow. She wrinkles her nose in her sleep.

Sherlock backs away, monitoring her sleeping form, and bumps solidly into John who has been watching him from the shadowy doorway. John catches him around the middle as he stumbles and they muffle their burst of laughter as Sherlock silently shuts the door behind them. They walk slowly back to the stairwell, John sliding an arm around his waist.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock mumbles apologetically.

“Not really. I was lightly asleep. When I heard you playing, I wanted to check on Rosie, too. But you had it covered. So… I just enjoyed the show.”

Sherlock smiles and kisses his brow.

“Amazing, really,” John muses around a yawn, scratching his scalp sleepily, “that a little music works so well to ease her nightmares, and mine. Maybe she’ll sleep the night through.”

“She’ll be in our bed within three hours.”

John smiles ruefully. “Yea, you’re right. So why not come join me and catch a few winks before then?” He nuzzles the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “I might have a nightmare of my own I need you to save me from.”

Sherlock grins. “I’ll be up soon. Let me put away these papers. I don’t want them drawn on again in the morning.”

 

…

 

John is curled onto his side and half asleep when Sherlock finally slides under the blankets of their bed, fitting into the negative space behind knee and curve of spine. In a gesture that has become automatic, he wraps his arm around John’s belly, chin nestled over his soft cranium. John gives an appreciative wiggle at his presence before beginning to snore softly.

Sherlock isn’t at all sleepy. While on a case, he rarely actually _sleeps_ when he shares their bed, but the ritual of it, the brief cocoon together amidst The Work and being dads, has become too important to give up in favor of a rapidly-solved puzzle.

He marvels at himself, the detective who metamorphosed from solution-junkie to complacent cat. He is not married to The Work. He is married to John, and has more than his starved younger self could have fathomed.

Sherlock’s mind wanders to his case, to the pattern he’d almost found, and he’s beginning to sense it again, the papers all arranged in his mind, when suddenly John lurches with a hypnic twitch that startles Sherlock right out of his mind palace. Pulse racing, he watches John’s face for signs of disturbance, but he sleeps on peacefully.

Settling back onto the pillow with a huff, Sherlock takes the hint. There are rules now. _Off-duty in bed._ His sudden, dazzling solutions had complicated more than one session between John’s thighs – no matter how much he’d tried to reassure him that he could _easily_ think about the two things at once – it even improved his thought processes! But John was not interested in being his conductor of light at _those_ times.

Curled into their cocoon, Sherlock matches the rhythm of John’s breathing, a trick that usually helps him stay focused on the present… but finds he’s wandering along the cool corridors of his mind palace to the library. He scolds himself for resuming The Work and turns to leave, but finds he’s facing a door he hadn’t even realized he was searching for.

It opens quite suddenly onto a mountainside. He strides through the doorway with a grin that crinkles his eyes. The crunching gravel track leads him to a valley surrounded by towering, blue-green mountains. In the bowl at their feet he finds a long, deep lake - likely bottomless -  reflecting a summer sky scudded with cumulus clouds.

The lake holds memories of a time when his violin was not available to soothe John’s nightmares, when a simple luggage omission changed the course of his life.

Without pausing, he veers off the path, slides down the bank, and lowers himself into the cool water. Floating on his back, the water lapping his face, he stretches out his arms, weightless, and lets the memory fill his every pore.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_221B, four years ago_ **

 

“Where’s Rosie? Not still asleep?” John asks puzzled, standing in the doorway, tired and rumpled from a day at the surgery. He heels off his shoes and kicks them under the coat rack. The small, familiar gesture is not lost on Sherlock, who has been cataloging every instance he’s witnessed of John’s growing comfort in the flat – and around Sherlock – since he moved back in with Rosie.

John’s quizzical brow furrows deeper as he takes in Sherlock and the state of the sitting room.

“What are you wearing?” 

Sherlock, unusually clad in lightweight cargo shorts and a form-fitting performance T-shirt, watches with barely contained delight as John quickly puts the pieces together: Sherlock decked out like a rambler, couch holding a jumble of trekking gear, missing baby.

“Sherlock.” His confusion simmers into a suspicious smile and he crosses his arms with a hint of the old playfulness Sherlock has ached for. “Where are we going this weekend?”

“Snowdonia!” Sherlock erupts, unable keep it in a moment longer. “Murder case. _Well_ …” he grimaces quickly, “likely not, hardly more than a three, but _John_.” Sherlock’s eyes close reverently. “I haven’t been back to _Yr Wyddfa_ since I was fourteen.”

“You,” John says with grinning disbelief as he peels off his coat, “a _rambler?_ ” 

Sherlock sniffs, mock-wounded. “You act as if I was born fully formed sitting behind a microscope, John. I have bagged my share of the Welsh 14. I was obsessed with the _Mabinogion_ as a boy, King Arthur, all the old tales. A jaunt around Snowdon, in the very country of dragons, is like stepping out of the present and slipping instantly into legend.”

“I had no idea you were such a romantic,” John chuckles, leaning against the couch to take in the pile of gear. Warmth bubbling in his chest, Sherlock hides his smile by staring down at his feet clad in sleek new walking boots. “And Rosie?”

“­–is with Mrs. Hudson for the weekend.” Sherlock launches back into action, stuffing a tube of sunblock and an unfamiliar camera bag into a duffel. “There’s time before our train for you to go and play with her a bit before we go. I still have some things to pack.”

“Don’t forget–”

“I’ve got your mobile charger, never fear.”

John grins and nods. “Ta.”

“Here, try these on, make sure they’re a good fit.”

Sherlock pushes a pair of new walking boots into John’s hands as he bustles by with a water-bladder that straps to one’s back, a tube snaking down from it to make drinking easy on the go. John shakes his head, still nonplussed, but obediently ties on the boots and takes an experimental walk around the flat. 

“They’re perfect,” he announces with a hint of surprise. “Never had any that felt this good the first time wearing them.”

“I made sure to find a pair that matched the curvature of your footbed. Not an easy match. You’ll want to have extremely good grip where we’re going.”

“You… know the curvature of my foot? Oh, hell, course you do.” John chuckles, bewildered. “Snowdonia. Well, that’s brilliant. I’ve never been up that way before. Can I help? Or shall I… just pop down?”

“Go be with Rosie, I’ll be done this before the hour’s end. We need to be at Euston station by 7.

“Night train? Oh, _grand_. Hope you don’t mind hiking with a stiff neck tomorrow.”

“You can have my pillow, John, I don’t intend to sleep tonight. I’ll be reviewing the case.”

“Right, okay. I’ll just, um, head down then – you’ll fill me on the case when I–”

“Yes, on the train. Go see Rosie. We have a murder to solve.”

“Yes,” he smirks, “that’s clearly foremost on your mind.”

“Well, it’s terrifically convenient that the unfortunate victim died on my favorite perilous ridge.”

John, still wearing the nimble new boots, pauses for a moment on the landing before bounding down the stairs. Sherlock, grinning into the rucksack he’s loading, can practically hear the excitement crackling off of him. _Brilliant._

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Beyond the tiny, darkened window, the countryside blurs past. The hum and sway of the train is making John yawn, stretched out as he is on the upper bunk of their tiny two-berth compartment. Sherlock occupies the entirety of the bunk below him, still fully clothed, laptop balanced on his belly, typing rapidly. John leans over the side slightly to see him better as they talk.

“So the bloke who fell, his wife reckons his brother pushed him to get at the trust fund.”

“Yes, that is the pathetically mundane short of it. Of course, he _didn’t_.” 

“Oh, and you can tell that from your comfortable berth, can you?” John smirks at him. Without looking away from the screen, Sherlock grabs for his pillow and lobs it at John’s head.

“Oy, watch it!” John grins, catching it. 

“I did say I’d give you my pillow.”

“Well then, ta. So, go on, you’re dying to tell me.” John’s face disappears as he re-positions himself on the two pillows, sighing contentedly.

In response, Sherlock leaps up from his bunk and quickly scales the small ladder leading to John’s.

“Budge over.”

John does so with a bemused scowl. It’s a tight fit. Sherlock hunches cross-legged, his head nearly brushing the compartment ceiling, his shoulder pressing against John’s. John doesn’t pull away, but then, there is nothing overly familiar about two mates sitting close, despite the bloom of warmth it causes in Sherlock’s abdomen.

There have been more of these friendly touches of late. Sherlock has an ever-lengthening list of instances: a quick, companionable squeeze of shoulder from John; a light press to the small of the back from Sherlock... though nothing resembling a hug since John’s tears at 221B several months ago.

The list of _embraces_ during their acquaintance is far shorter, though far more confusing to Sherlock, the night of tears being the most baffling. They had stood close together, tense, John soaking sherlock's shirt with his sobs. Sherlock had not been so much _hugging_ him as holding him together as he crumbled. When the shuddering sobs had quieted, they had parted. Sherlock had fled to fetch him toilet paper for his nose, and John had scuttled into the kitchen to put on tea. A week later, he and Rosie were settled in the upstairs room.

Of course, Sherlock reasons, he’s extremely lucky. They are the best of mates, even after all that’s happened between them. It's the best he can expect. John is _not gay_ and persistently fails to see that Sherlock _is,_ though Irene hasn’t come up since his return to 221B. This is what they are, and if this is Sherlock’s family, well, it’s more than he ever could have dared hope for.

Still, sitting here on the top bunk crowded together, the warmth of John and the scent of him does things to Sherlock’s chest that he quickly pushes down with well-practiced discipline.

Sherlock points to his screen and taps ‘play’ on a YouTube video he’s loaded. A sheer, stony ridge appears, rust red, shot from above by a drone. Brightly colored dots move along the narrow crest, the sides sloping steeply to the valley far below. John stiffens and suddenly the flutters in Sherlock chest are frozen, replaced with a sinking dread.

“Wait–” John croaks. “ _Christ_ , are those _people?”_

“This is Crib Goch, the Red Ridge,” Sherlock begins to lecture rapidly with nerves. Perhaps he’s misread John’s reaction. “It’s the most perilous of the approaches to Mount Snowdon. 5 kilometers of knife-edge scrambling at over 900 meters. Utterly exhilarating and not for the faint of heart. People topple off it from time to time – usually not if you’re prepared or fit – but wear the wrong sort of shoe, get dizzy with heat stroke, off you go. Mountain Rescue has their work cut out for them. Course, not all of them die, but clearly, some do.”

“Jesus, I reckon so,” John breathes, eyes popping at the screen. Sherlock’s worry solidifies. It never occurred to him that his fellow adrenaline-junkie may actually have a fear of _heights_. As the video plays, he runs rapidly through their experiences, but can find no supporting evidence either way. 

On the video, the drone swoops away giving a startling view of the near-vertical side of the Red Ridge dropping several hundred meters to a field of boulders. John swallows hard, his voice suddenly tight. 

“Seems like an easy enough place to make a murder look like an accident.” 

“It’s the other way around, I’m nearly certain of it. But,” Sherlock suddenly snaps the laptop closed as the drone makes a dizzying 360° circuit of the climb to the Pinnacles. “I will gladly open myself to other options once we are out on the ridge tomorrow.”

Sherlock leans back against the cabin wall, weighing conflicting thoughts. The jaunt was meant to remind them of old times, be a lark, stitch them closer together. But John looks pale. “How-how’d you get the case, then? Someone you know?” 

“Friend of Greg’s, Detective Inspector Meredith Blanchard, quite clever, knows me by reputation. Called to the case from Cardiff. But there’s so little evidence left on the body or the scene that she felt quite out of her depth. She requested me, hoping to ease the widow’s fears. I like her already.” He isn’t positive, but he thinks his praise for this female detective earns him a frown. _Oh for God’s sake, John._

“So… we’re just going to… go up there? And look for clues?”

“Of course. No time to stop at the morgue beforehand. Meredith’s sent me photos of the body to review.

“Oh. That’s… shall I take a look?”

Sherlock purses his lips, considering John. Wouldn’t do to have him get a head full of nightmares and be fatigued on the ridge tomorrow.

“In the morning. The ridge will be shut down for just the one day, so we’ll have the trail to ourselves.” He suddenly launches off the bunk, palms off the overhead light, and settles back onto his own, typing furiously on his laptop again. “Get some rest, John, we need to start as soon as we arrive.”

“Okay,” John breathes into the dark above him. The rhythmic hum of the train fills their cabin. Sherlock can practically feel him bracing himself. His resolve crumples.

“John…” he says hesitantly into the silence. “I have overstepped my bounds. Stay at the Inn tomorrow, take a look around Beddgelert–”

“No,” John says firmly, cutting him off. “No, Sherlock, this is… this is great, really, you and me, out on a case. Like old times.”

_But unlike old times,_ _you never seemed afraid before._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was lucky enough to hike Crib Goch back in 2007. I was also young and/or stupid enough to have only a fuzzy idea of what I was in for (I was a recent Appalachian Trail thru-hiker and thought myself invincible). Luckily, despite being A Bit Not Good with heights, I managed to get through it with only happy, exhilarating memories. I did what I called, The Gollum Crawl, which is basically scrabbling along on all fours. 
> 
> If you'd like to see what's got John in a sweat, check out the video Sherlock could have showed him: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3fM4IBv0WY
> 
> And thank god we didn't know much about YouTube in 2007 or have easy access to drones... I'd never, ever have found myself on this ramble!


	4. Chapter 4

The video does not do it justice. His memory does not do it justice.

At 900 meters, Sherlock pauses in his scramble to stare reverently at the landscape below: the treeless valley dotted with sparkling lakes, blue-green mountains mottled with cloud-shadow hulking in a companionable cluster. Looking upon it, he is filled with the fantasy of his youth, of being an eagle perched on the flinty crags surveying his kingdom, soaring over the water, a ring bearer gripping the feathers of his back.

Sherlock glances up at John, doggedly clambering along the narrow ridge ahead of him. He had insisted John go first – the easier to help him if he froze or stumbled, though he didn’t say so – but despite Sherlock’s earlier fears, John has proven to be a stolid rambler with sure footing. If not exactly _excited_ , he has at least shown no signs of becoming cragfast.

The sun is well up, their light-weight nylon shirts damp with sweat from the climb to the ridge. They’re traveling light, just water on their backs, protein-dense snacks in pockets, trim first aid kit, and a new slim, silver, high-pixel camera Sherlock picked up for evidence shots _. Mobiles never get the depth quite right._

They break at a plateau that’s nearly the width of a taxi. After taking a long drink from his water tube, Sherlock points off in the direction of the largest dome-topped peak to their left, pale blue in the humid air.

“That, John, is the real scene of the crime. Atop Snowdon, King Arthur killed the lord of the mountain – a loathsome giant named Rhitta Gawr who fashioned a cape for himself out of the beards of his enemies. Arthur’s men covered his corpse in huge stones on the summit of the mountain.” Sherlock spreads his arms dramatically, taking in the glimmering lakes below, seeming no larger than ponds from their perch. “According to legend, the Lake of Llydaw, long imagined to be bottomless, may hold Arthur’s Excalibur.”

“Huh! King Arthur, _giant slayer,”_ John muses appreciatively. “Never read the Mabinogion, just a lot of Tolkien. Sounds excellent. Do we have a copy?”

Sherlock warms at the weighted reference to _we._ “Of course. I’ll find it for you when we’re back home.”

John nods, seeming to pink a bit at the inclusive mention of _home._

Though they have the ridge to themselves by order of the North Welsh Police, they can see the gently sloping Pyg Track far below, dotted with dozens of brightly-colored walkers on their way up to Rhitta’s tomb by a much less perilous route.

As they set off again, Sherlock leads – he needs to keep is eyes open for clues now that they’re nearing the scene of the incident. Sherlock picks his way carefully over loose rocks on the narrow ridge, barely a few handbreadths’ wide in most spots, the slope dropping steeply to either side as if Rhitta’s child had mounded a mountain of scree, then scraped off sheer slopes in frightful play. He sneaks glimpses back at John who, while a bit too pale for the heat of the day, a bit more silent than usual, follows stolidly without complaint.

Sherlock’s muscles burn pleasantly – they’ve really sat around the flat far too much of late – and his thoughts start to drift. The walk has woken the old rambler in him and he muses about acquiring one of those backpack contraptions for lugging babies about; weekend walks as a sort of… _family_.

He’s wondering how soon he could start reading the Hobbit to Rosie when his foot very suddenly slides out from under him. His arms fly out, cartwheeling instinctively to catch his balance – and feels strong hands grab his waist, an iron grip pulling him down, crushing him to the ground.

“Easy there,” John mutters tightly, his breath on Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock’s pulse pounds in his neck from the surge of adrenaline, his relief, and the sudden physical closeness. John eases off of him, staying low to the ground on his haunches and bracing himself, one hand outstretched in case Sherlock should wobble.

“I’m fine, just a slip.” Sherlock winces as his voice comes out quivery.

“Can’t afford a slip up here,” John says grimly.

 Sherlock nods, easing back up to his feet. “I wouldn’t have fallen. But your reflexes, Doctor, are admirable as always.”

“You’re sure you’re okay? Not dizzy, no vertigo?"

“No, I was just lost in thought, missed my step. Really John, I’m _fine._ ”

Still crouching tensely, John takes a deep, shuddering breath and rubs his hands over his face. _Damn, I’ve terrified him into a panic._ But John knocks his fretful thoughts aside. “This is _exactly_ what I was worried about – you feeling fourteen again, _gallivanting_ along a knife’s edge like you’re bloody _invincible_.”

Sherlock swivels to face him, incredulous. “ _Me?_ _Gallivanting?_ Are you seriously saying that you’ve been concerned for _my_ welfare all this time?”

John stares hard at him, a pulse of anger and grief warring on his face, fists clenching. He bites out his words in a barely restrained roar. “I watched you _fall_ , Sherlock, from a _bloody building._ I watched you _die._ You’ll forgive me if I’m a bit _tetchy_ about bringing someone I care so much about near perilous drops.”

Sherlock’s feels his insides freeze. _I had it backwards._ _I’m an idiot. I wanted this to bring us closer, and all I’ve done is rip the scab off old wounds._

He swallows hard and nods. “John, I’m so sorry _._ This was a ludicrous idea. I only hoped…” but he can’t bring himself to voice his foolish desires.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John breathes, resigned, the fire extinguishing. “I get it. A bit of thrill, a good dose of The Work. I’ve missed it, too. I was honestly excited to visit a place you remember so fondly. It just... brings back... things.”

John’s words thrum in his mind. _‘Someone I care so much about…’_

“I’ll be more careful,” he mutters, abashed. “I’ve been worried about you as well.”

John shakes his head. “Let’s just keep our minds on our own feet and get on with it. I don’t fancy being out here in the dark.” He stands warily and they slowly continue along the narrow ridge. “And make sure you’re drinking plenty of water – your water bag looks too full.”

Sherlock obediently tugs the tube to his lips and drinks deeply, taking John’s sudden wave of nervous caretaking as his due.

Long minutes pass as they climb in tense silence. “If you’d like to know,” Sherlock hazards, “I was thinking how we should get one of those baby carriers and take Rosie on a jaunt.”

John huffs a mirthless laugh. “How ‘bout we start her somewhere a bit _flatter._ Maybe Regents Park.”

“Oh come now, Epping Forest would be perfectly child-friendly; nice and flat, big herd of black deer, and some incredible old trees to picnic under.” He glances at the sun. “It’s about eleven, she must be taking her nap about now. I hope Mrs. Hudson remembers to give her that wooly lamb she’s been so partial to.”

John is quiet. Sherlock obediently watches his footing and thinks fretfully over his words. Perhaps he’s overstepped his bounds. He’s gotten along surprisingly well with Rosie  – taken on much of her care while John’s been working. He had seemed grateful, if nervous to be putting Sherlock out, no matter how Sherlock reassured him that he _liked_  it, had a knack for it. John had come home from work and woken him more than once, sprawled on the sofa with the baby asleep on his chest.

John clears his throat, his voice rough with emotion. “You really consider her.”

“Of course I do."

“It… surprises me. Constantly.”

Sherlock plants his boot carefully on a stone, redoubling his focus on the steps ahead.

“I know.” 

The spots on his ribs ache where John’s strong fingers had caught him. He'll have bruises by morning.

 

…

 

At last, they scramble up a stony face that’s like climbing inverted stairs in an MC Escher print. They flop breathlessly  onto the grassy saddle of Bwlch Coch, the path luxuriously wide compared to the narrow, craggy ascent. They pause to take in the view of the ridge they’ve crossed, gulping water. After the long stretch of silence and the precision of the difficult climb, the tension has faded between them. Sherlock hands John an energy bar and tears into one of his own.

“What, _you,_ eating on a case?”

“Don’t want to get dizzy out here, John. And it’s hardly a case. This is a _holiday.”  
_

He crouches down on all fours and begins to inspect the rocks with his magnifying lens, brought along in a side pocket of his trekking shorts.

“Wait,” John says around a mouthful of almonds and carob. “ _This_ is the site of the murder? This _flat_ bit, after all that dodgy stuff we just climbed?”

“ _Accidents_ so often occur when we let our guard down, John,” Sherlock mutters, consumed by the footprints pressed into the dust between patches of rough grass. “If accident it indeed was – which would be much easier to prove if yesterday’s stampede hadn’t trampled half the footprints…”

Sherlock notes covertly that John looks… _radiant._ The success of the climb, the buzz of endorphins, and the release of his anxiety have washed the day’s strain from his face. He stares out at the breathtaking view, seeming to appreciate it more when seen from a spot of relative safety. With a small nod, Sherlock allows himself to become absorbed in his examination.

It’s perfectly silent on the ridge. Not even a fly buzzes them. Hardly any breeze, either, like being on the moon. Unfamiliar beeps tug at Sherlock's focus and he looks around to see John with the new camera pressed to his eye, silver gleaming in the mid-day sun. He spins in a slow circle in the middle of the saddle, capturing a 360° panorama, red ‘record’ light flashing. Sherlock grins, enjoying seeing him occupied like a proper tourist.

He returns to his search, feeling a bubble of excitement as he discovers an untouched footprint in the dust that matches the victim’s tread he’d seen in the photos this morning. He scowls – the victim’s shoe is angled in an unusually defensive position, more pressure on the outer edge showing a sharp turn, which unnerves him. He hunts for another, finds it. _Reacting to a sudden blow, balance lost, tipping. Dammit. Why did people have to be so predictable?_

“John, pass me the camera, will you?” Without turning, he holds his hand out, expecting the camera to materialize there, not taking his eyes from the disturbing set of footprints. “I’ve found something in the victim’s tracks–”

Sherlock suddenly hears a meaty thud, a short, surprised shout, and a gasp that clenches his stomach into knots. He whirls toward the sound.

Time slows, the blessing of synapses processing their data through the syrup of shock.

John is tipping forward, too far forward. He’s too close to the sloping edge – how had he gotten so close? Sherlock can clearly see the slight sunburn on the back of John’s neck; the neon green stitching in the hem of his gray shirt; the dust on his socks; the silver camera swinging away from his fingers, attached by a cord to his wrist.

And then Sherlock is leaping forward, time slamming into his senses at full speed. He doesn’t remember jumping, but he can see John sliding, feel his fingers clamped onto John’s leg, his own knees and heels digging into the sod, gravity and momentum fighting to pull all of John’s weight from his fingertips.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s crying out, calling John’s name, and that John is cursing in a steady, high-pitched stream, his own hands scrabbling at the loose stone and steep turf. Sherlock pulls with everything he has, tumbling them backward, rolling him to the middle of the saddle with several feet of solid ground between them and the edge.

They lay panting, clinging, cursing, skin coated with dust, knees and palms bleeding and grass-stained.

Sherlock can’t imagine letting him go. But shakily, he pushes up onto an elbow and appraises his doctor, white as chalk, face smeared with red dust and sweat, trying very hard to control his breathing.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock mutters, knowing it isn’t, and tightens his grip. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your very kind comments and enthusiasm for this story - I'm also sorry I made you wait up on the ridge! The writing is going a little slower mid-week, so here's a shorter chapter and some relief. (Also, I'm not beta'd so please forgive the typos I overlook.)   
> Onward!

 

“Oh Christ,” John gasps, flat on his back, chest heaving. “Bloody good catch.” He locks eyes with Sherlock, hovering over him tense and terrified. “You can let go, now, I don’t think I’ll roll off.”

 Sherlock bites his lip and nods, slowly unclenching his hands and noting the white grip marks he leaves on John’s lightly sunburned forearms. He sits back on his haunches, eyes darting from John to cliff edge, surveying the scene rapidly.

"In answer to your question, I don’t know,” John says with resign as he heaves himself up to sit. “I don’t have any idea how I started to fall.”

“I didn’t ask it yet,” Sherlock says quietly.

“But you were thinking it very loudly.”

“Yes, alright.”

“Jesus, look at your knees,” John scowls. Sherlock notes the blood with indifference.

“It’s fine, just scraped.” But John has already begun digging in his light pack for the first aid kit he insisted they bring. Sherlock knows the first-responder instincts soothe John, and lets him tend to his bleeding knees without complaint. He notes the abrasions on John’s palms and the tremor in his left hand.

“Here,” Sherlock says, once his knees have been efficiently cleaned and bandaged. He pulls John’s right hand to him, appraising it. “Let me clean the cuts.”

“Oh. I didn’t even feel mine – I can do it–”

Sherlock ignores him, commandeering the first aid kit and dabbing at the bloody scratches with an alcohol swab.

“You were standing in the center of the ridge,” Sherlock says, focused on his work. “I saw you looking through the camera. You must have backed up too far when you were taking that panorama shot. It would have been easy to lose your footing going backwards if you weren’t expecting the slope.”

“Yea, maybe,” John scowls, “I don’t remember much at all, I was so panicked.” John rubs absently at his shoulder. “I tipped over, I think – yea, maybe I just got careless and lost my footing.” He swallows hard. “Jesus… I couldn’t stop the slide. Then you were hauling me up, and I think I blacked out for a moment.”

“I don’t think I can make a bandage fit on this, but it’s clean,” Sherlock mutters, reluctantly giving John back his hand. “Just… Drink more water, and finish the rest of my bar.” Sherlock pulls his half-eaten energy bar out of his pocket.

“No, thanks, don’t think I can stomach much more than water right now.” He obediently drinks from the water tube, eyeing the cliff edge with bewilderment. “Still can’t see how I just tipped over…”

Sherlock stares bitterly at the wax-drip spires of the ridge they’ve just crossed, feeling betrayed by it. They’ve passed the most difficult section, but he longs for a pair of eagles to bear them swiftly back to solid ground and end this total fiasco of an outing.

But there’s still The Work. Another man had not been so lucky. His family wants answer, his brother’s innocence is in question. Sherlock gently tugs the camera strap off of John’s wrist and takes several photos of the footprints in the dusty grass. Fortunately, he’d lunged away from the tracks, keeping them intact. It’s all he has to go on, but he’s not sure it’s enough to pinpoint the blame on the brother. He thinks of the victim’s grieving wife and crouches closer to John as he packs up their gear.

“Sherlock…” John has his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He realizes he’s said his name a few times.

“Yes, _what,”_ he snaps.

“Sit down.”

“I will not. I will get you off this godforsaken cliff immediately. The path goes on to Snowdon. We can take the Pyg Track down.” He snorts. “Compared to this, it really will be like walking through Regents Park.”

“Sherlock.”

 _“John!”_ He feels frayed and harassed. 

“Sit. Down.” The pressure of John’s hand on his shoulder increases, insistent. This is a tone best not ignored. Sherlock obeys with a huff.

“That’s better. I know when I’ve had a shock. I know when I see it. Drink – there, that’s it.”

They sit in tense silence for long moments. Sherlock wonders how long John is going to make him stay still. All of his nerves are aflame.

“Breathe,” John whispers.

Sherlock scrubs at his hair with irritation, but John rests a gentle, hesitant hand on the nape of his neck, stilling him. With a shudder, Sherlock breathes.

The clouds move slowly overhead. The sun creeps incrementally west. And far off in London, Sherlock knows Rosie Watson is waking from her nap, blissfully unaware that her Papa nearly fell to his death from a cliff because his best friend thought danger would bring them closer.

_Idiot._

His throat constricts. The burning is behind his eyes, sudden and insistent. Sherlock curls into himself, buries his head in his knees, and shakes with sudden, wracking sobs.

Gradually, the wave passes. Sniffing hard, feeling wrung out and embarrassed, he surreptitiously tugs up his shirt to wipe his face before daring to face John. Suddenly his mortification softens. _Now we've both had a good cry in front of the other._

John, watching with a mixture of pain and relief, gives him a nod. Seemingly satisfied, he stands abruptly, pulls on his pack, and says brightly,

“Let’s get the fuck off this mountain. Next time, how 'bout just Epping Forest. With Rosie."

The storm-clouds in Sherlock's mind break apart. He feels his mouth twitch.

Grinning back, he nods.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

“What,” Sherlock seethes, “is _that.”_

Panting a bit from the climb to Snowdon’s summit, John makes an amused sound in his throat. “Visitor’s Center. Hafod… something.”

“Visitor’s _what?”_

“Yea, I read about it in a pamphlet while you were booking the car,” John says mildly. “Pretty new. You know, walk up, get a sandwich and a cuppa. See how the rail leads right into it? Don’t even need to leave the train to take in the sights. Quite a civilized experience, your Snowdon.”

The low, modern granite building looks a bit like an oblong UFO perched on the edge of the mountain, hunched low as if trying to escape notice. Long, wide windows give a glimpse of a bustling crowd within, eating at tables and holding up smartphones to capture the view. Sherlock sneers, abruptly turns his back on it, and stalks up the long flinty stairs to the summit.

One small blessing, he must admit, is that due to the ridiculous _restaurant_ , the summit is much quieter than he’d expected. There are several walkers outside taking in the view, but the usual throng lounging on the rocks, talking too loudly and leaving behind sweet wrappers has largely moved inside.

“You think that place has a gift shop?”

Sherlock glares at him over his shoulder.

“Let’s pop in,” John grins wickedly, “get Rosie her own little Cape of Beards.”

The glower dissolves and Sherlock cracks a smile that John returns. He bounds the last few steps to the summit cairn.

Atop the rubble of the summit, the ancient giant’s tomb, they spend several minutes admiring the hulking blue-green peaks and sparkling lakes below.

“When I was a boy,” Sherlock says, shielding his eyes and squinting at the horizon, “they said you could see all the way to the Isle of Man on a clear day.”

“Not today. Too hazy.”

John scrutinizes a large circular brass plate mounted on a stone cairn, calling out the names of the mountains it indicates around them.

“John, your Welsh is terrible.”

“Well, what bloody language puts two d’s together and says _th._ ”

“John, the Queens English tells us a-u-g-h says _f_.”

John smirks. “Yea, fair point. Hey, come here a moment–”

Sherlock turns, surprised when John wraps an arm around his shoulders, holding up his mobile before them.

“Ah. _Selfie_ ,” Sherlock says with distaste.

“Come on, Sherlock, honestly, how many photos do we have together?”

Unbidden, an image from John’s wedding album floats up from the elaborate archives of Sherlock’s mind palace; each man standing stiffly shoulder to shoulder in their matching dark gray suits, charcoal top hats quaffed, the remnants of laughter on John’s features from a particularly amusing deduction Sherlock had just muttered to him about the caterer. They look for all the world like two grooms on their wedding day.

“It’s customary to smile, Sherlock, but I can’t force you.” John gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. In the screen of the phone, John’s face looks weathered, but… _happy._ He glances down to see if this is true in the flesh.

“Ah, that’s it.” John suddenly releases him, stepping away to scroll through the shots. “Yea, that’s one for the mantle.” He holds it up for Sherlock’s appraisal. He sees that the camera has captured one of him looking down at John with a fond and bemused expression, John beaming with the sprawling scenery behind them.

The vaults that hold all of his _feelings_ give a tremor. He sets to reinforcing them.

While they’ve dallied, a large crowd has filled in around them on the summit, elbowing in for a look at the copper monument and angling for their own selfies. Sherlock is suddenly overwhelmed by the press of bodies.

“Alright?” John peers at him, sensing his discomfort.

“Let’s go.”

John stands on tiptoe, trying to see around the crowd. “Which way to the Pyg Track?”

Sherlock takes John’s hand and tugs him through the mass of brightly colored nylon jackets and strong perfumes, keeping his eyes firmly on the stone steps to fight the urge to deduce them.

The crowd fades behind them as their boots, now properly dusty and grass-stained, crunch along the gravel path sloping gently to the valley. Sherlock realizes he’s still got John’s hand and releases it with a nervous spasm. “Sorry – your hand – hope I didn’t hurt–” but John just chuckles at his discomfort and dismisses it with another pat on the shoulder. His attention is suddenly pulled upward.

 “Look, that bird way up there. That’s a kestrel, if I’m not much mistaken.”

Crib Goch is a hazy dragon’s spine looming over them. Sherlock can just make out the angular wings of the bird’s black silhouette wheeling over the ridge.

“A mountain best left to the winged beasts,” Sherlock hums, watching the bird’s flight with fascination. “ _Eagles_ , John, not _trains_. Eagles are the only acceptable way to cheat up to a summit.” He looks around to find himself alone and hurries to catch up. John has marched on ahead, clearly eager to be done with the excursion.

 

…

 

It’s dusk when they arrive in the small, stony town of Beddgelert _(“Not Bed-jellert, John, Beth-gel-airt!”)_ , the bustling cluster of inns and cottages in Snowdon’s shadow. The Tanronnen Inn, like much of the town, is built of smooth grey stone and overflowing with pots of red and yellow geraniums. The flinty town looks as if it could weather the ages.

Sherlock parks their rented car behind the Inn and they tramp stiffly into the lobby. While Sherlock checks in, he notes John casting an eye at the quiet lounge. The fireplace, crackling against the chilly mountain evening, sparkles on the well-stocked bar. Sherlock raises his eyebrows at him, wondering if John will fancy a pint, but he shakes his head and heads off down the corridor to their room. It’s for the best ­– Sherlock feels grimy with the day’s sweat and dust and wants desperately to shower.

Sherlock is aware he’s been aloof for most of the Snowdon descent and the drive back to Beddgelert ­– lost in his thoughts about the footprints, feeling churned and horrible about John’s fall, confused about several moments between them on the ridge. Clarity won’t come.

Ahead of him, John finds their room and unlocks the door, but only stares through the open doorway, unmoving.

“Problem?”

He nudges next to John in the doorway, dropping their shared suitcase with a huff.

“I _specifically_ requested a room with _two_ beds.”

John sighs wearily. “I don’t care, Sherlock.” He grabs their suitcase and begins to settle in. “Just don’t steal all the blankets.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock stands frozen in the doorway. The Inn is full – only seven rooms – no possibility of a swap.

No matter. Sharing a bed in a crowded inn is a perfectly chaste and acceptable thing between mates – no different from sleeping back to back in a small tent…

Which is _exactly_ why Sherlock had opted for the inn and not the campground closer to the trail. Being so close to John, his scent, his warmth, especially after today... He’d only wanted a bit of the old adventure for them, a puzzle to crack, a tramp on an old mountain. Now it’s become… _complicated_ and John baffles him more than ever..

Perhaps John will be asleep before it’s even an issue – he’d dozed off on the drive down from Pen y Pass. But it’s too risky. If John realizes, it will crumble the already-shaky foundation they’ve rebuilt since Sherlock’s return.

“Never fear, John.” Sherlock tries to keep his voice light, abruptly launching from the doorway to set up his post at a small table under the window. “You can have the blankets _and_ my pillow. No sleep for me, I’m on a case.” Outside the window, a small river chatters past beneath a lovely old arched stone bridge. Sherlock hopes the sound of the water won’t make him tired. He’s more worn out than he wants to admit.

Sherlock feels the air in the room go taught and turns to find John giving him what he thinks of as his _doctor’s_ scowl, his bathroom kit dug out from the suitcase and pinned under one arm. “Sherlock, it’s been an exhausting day. We’ve both had a rough shock. You need _sleep_.”

Sherlock waves him away, eyes already locked on his laptop and the string of messages they’d received from Meredith. “I’m fine. You had the worst of it. I can sleep on the train home once the case is done. Take the first shower.”

“Fine, suit yourself,” John growls. “I know you’re fasting now that we’re back among mere mortals, but at least ring for some tea for me. I’m knackered. A quick bite in and I’ll be out like a light.”

… 

John emerges from the bathroom, skin pink and scrubbed clean, smelling of his shampoo and an unfamiliar chamomile lotion that must have been complementary from the inn. Sherlock surprises him by having plates of steaming fish and chips, peas and carrots already brought up from the dining room.

They tuck in, their plates and cups crowding the small table between open files and grisly autopsy photos. Sherlock stays riveted to his laptop, digging again through the brothers’ public records, hacking into their social media accounts. The footprints clearly indicate a confrontation on the ridge, but he can find no sign of animosity between the two, no record of miscreant behavior, no money squabbles or comments tinted with jealousy. Grabbing for more chips, he stabs at the keyboard in frustration.

“Any leads?”

“Nothing. They appear, for all the world, like perfectly amicable siblings. Their last interaction on Facebook was a string of Monty Python quotes.”

John gives him a lopsided grin. “You know about Monty Python?”

“Really, John, I haven’t deleted _everything_.”

“They why would the victim’s wife accuse her brother-in-law of foul play?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Grief does strange things to the mind.”

“We’ll be meeting with them tomorrow, I suppose?”

“Already did.”

“What? When?” John stares incredulously at him over a forkful of peas.

“Before we left. Skyped.”

“When were you going to fill me in on that bit?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I thought I had. My interviews clearly indicated the death was an accident, I didn’t give them further thought. There were no physical manifestations of guilt, no tangled facts to raise any flags. The brother was grieving deeply, alarmed and hurt at the accusation against him. But. He said he understood why his sister-in-law would be looking for some tangible reason or the death, someone to blame – not just a stupid accident. The widow was equally grief-stricken. She had nothing to base her accusation on – no previous sign that the brothers had been after one another’s inheritance. It wasn’t even that large.” 

He wants to make an effort with this case, but if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s already given it up. It’s unnerving, it’s not like him. Perhaps the day’s shock and exertion has taken a greater toll than he’d like to admit.

“So what next?”

“Next… we give the photos to Meredith, tell her what we saw. The footprints indicate a struggle. I genuinely thought we would find concrete evidence of an accident, but it’s not enough to incriminate him." 

“Wait… so it _was_ the brother?” John asks, a little breathless.

“The signs seem to indicate as such.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Sherlock looks up and away, tight-lipped.

“It just doesn’t _feel_ right. But I don’t know why yet. It’s maddening.”

Dropping his fork onto his empty plate, he catches John’s quietly approving expression.

“Guess I was wrong about the fasting.”

John stacks their dishes outside the door and stretches out on the bed, relaxed in soft pajamas, feet bare. With a sniff, Sherlock realizes he’s been so absorbed in looking for the key to the puzzle that he hasn’t bathed yet. While John lounges against the pillows poking around on his phone, Sherlock grabs his kit and heads into the small bathroom.

…

He stands gratefully in the spray of hot water, breathing in steam. Though his muscles ache, he’s too tired for a bath. The thought of _bath_ makes him miss Rosie with a pulse. Lately he’d been handling her bedtime bath while John cooked dinner.

While everything is significantly simpler without the young Watson around – no sudden fits of inexplicable crying, no nappies, no slimy teething toys tossed into his face – he finds he misses her terribly. He’s looking forward to scooping her up off Mrs. Hudson’s floor, kissing her chubby cheeks and hearing her cackle. 

As he stands in the hot water, an uncomfortable thought crystallizes. Eventually, John will find a girlfriend. John will get married, as people do, and he and Rosie will leave. Rosie will have a step-mum. He’ll be relegated to _Uncle Sherlock_ who, while perhaps getting an occasional weekend case with John, will only see Rosie for a bit of babysitting when John and the new, already-loathed Mrs. Watson want a bit of a sex holiday or a night off. Sherlock feels weighted down with the sadness of this future.

_Don’t be stupid. She was never yours. You’re a safe mooring in stormy times. At least give them that._

Sherlock re-emerges in pajamas toweling off his hair – careful to don his shirt before leaving the bathroom - the scars on his back are dangerous territory. He’s momentarily bewildered to hear Rosie’s warbling chatter and finds John video-chatting with Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock hurries over, climbing next to John on the bed to grin at her. Though pixelated by the slow connection and occasionally freezing in hysterical wide-mouth stills, the glimpse of Rosie warms his heart and pushes away at the sadness he’d conjured up in the shower. It’s a bright few minutes as he and John chuckle and baby-talk into the phone, shoulder to shoulder.

Suddenly Mrs. Hudson’s face fills the screen. “Just look at you two! I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen you so jolly! Good walk, then?”

“It was lovely, Mrs. H,” John says mildly, giving Sherlock a kick behind the phone, not that Sherlock would dream of mentioning the day’s excitement. “We should be home by, what,” he glances at Sherlock. “Dinnertime?” 

“If not sooner. Our business here is nearly complete. We’ll catch the earliest train we can.”

“That’s fine, fine. Oh – boys – bit of a mystery – she keeps saying _oodle_ and pointing upstairs. I brought her up to see what she was after, but she just kept it up, pointing all around and saying it over and over!” 

They hear Rosie squeal off-screen and begin insistently repeating ‘oodle’ in her bright, chirping voice.

“There she goes again! She can get quite upset, though I get her settled soon enough – such a lovely, distractible age. She’s been having a time of it with my measuring cups.”

John grins, baffled. “I don’t have the slightest idea what the _oodle_ is, maybe some toy–”

“It isn’t a _thing_ , it’s a command,” Sherlock interjects, pulling the phone in his direction. “It’s her way of saying ‘go over here.’ She says it when she wants to be picked up and brought to the object she wants to investigate. Perhaps she wanted to see if we were up in the flat.”

“Oodle!” Rosie demands, clawing at the phone and reappearing in a blur of blond curls and saliva-slick cheeks. With her furrowed brow and bright blue glare, Sherlock thinks warmly that she looks strikingly like her father.

“We’ll be home soon, love,” John purrs. “Mrs. H, best get her highness to bed. Thanks a million. We’ll be sure to pick you up something nice before we head back.”

“Oh, not at all, John, she’s a love. I’m just glad you two have a chance to do a bit of gallivanting.”

“Goodnight, Rosie,” Sherlock says softly. “See you soon.”

“Ock! Oodle! Ock! Ock!”

Mrs. Hudson breaks the connection and Sherlock is immediately aware that he and John are sharing a small portion of the bed in very close proximity. He launches away, picking up his damp towel on the way back to the bathroom, brusquely drying off his damp curls.

_She said my name. She looked for me._

Sherlock marvels at the way his chest constricts, the surge of blind, bright happiness bubbling up. God, to be _wanted_ in this pure, open way. Unlike the feelings he harbors for John, the love he has for Rosie – for love it is – does not need to be doubted, cross-examined, loathed, and locked into the deepest vaults of his mind palace, only occasionally breaking free of their ingenious restraints when John nearly dies. Unfortunately, it’s a regular thing with them. He’s got a tally.

_Ambushed the Black Swan abduction, though you mostly stopped it with that crossbow. Tore a coat of C4 from your body. Kept Moriarty at bay. Came back for the dead. Disarmed a tube car bomb. Pulled you from a bonfire. Killed the man who wanted to destroy your wife. Dragged you from a well. Hauled you off a cliff..._

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock shivers. It’s the tone that always comes with something he’d rather not hear. It’s warm, lightly vulnerable, hinting at something hidden in John’s own vaults, but buried so deep that he doesn’t think it could ever be exhumed.

“Mm,” he hums noncommittally, wondering how he can stay in the bathroom until John is asleep. _Should have brought the laptop._

“She said your name, didn’t she? Her first word. _You_.”

 _Shite. He heard it, too_. “John, I’m so sorry–” he blusters, gripping the smooth, cold porcelain of the sink. “Perhaps I spend too much time with her–”

“Sherlock, stop,” John sputters, baffled. Sherlock scowls, equally confused. Why isn't John upset? “Are you taking the mick? I think it’s _incredible_. Christ, my little girl, her _first word_. Don’t be a total berk, why _wouldn’t_ it be you? She’s crazy about you!”

“Still, John, it should have been you–”

“Bollocks. You’re the fun one. I’m all nap enforcement and vaccine schedules.”

“John!” Sherlock storms out of the bathroom, forgetting his plan to hide. “You’re a wonderful father. You’re affectionate and present. You’re the only one who can make her do that laugh that sounds like a goose, and you know all her favorite songs. You can get her to sleep properly – I’m sure I’m just instilling bad habits.”

“Oh, honestly Sherlock,” John waves his hand to brush aside the compliments. “We’re all just making it up as we go. You’re brilliant with her. Truly, I’ve been astonished at this side of you – before we know it, you’ll be carting her off to toddler taekwando, have her fluent in six languages, and blowing up things in the kitchen.”

John falters, suddenly turning crimson.

“Ahm. That is to say. I shouldn’t assume. That you’d want us around for so long–”

“John, please,” Sherlock scoffs, feeling his stomach flip. “You and Rosie can stay as long as you want. But you won’t. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely new wife within a few years.”

_Damn, that came out too bitter.  
_

John purses his lips, avoiding his eyes. Sherlock waits by the bathroom door, towel still gripped in his white-knuckled fists, breath tight.

“I… don’t really think I’ll be… looking for that. Anymore.”

_Curious._

“You say that now,” Sherlock rumbles. “The grief is still acute.”

“Doesn’t matter. Not what I’m after.” John tosses his phone aside and picks up his book from the bedside table, focusing on the pages. “Good work with that _oodle_ bit. Babies and deductions – great terrain for your skills. Just think, it could be a whole new career for you. All those bewildered parents you could save.”

Scowling at the praise, Sherlock makes a b-line for his work table. He’s half-heartedly re-reviewing the toxicology screenings for the victim – again seeing nothing unusual – when he hears John’s breathing pattern change. He turns to find him curled on his side and fast asleep, his nose dipping into the still-open book.

Sherlok pads gingerly to the bed on sore feet and looks down at him. _What if he meant it?,_ some small hopeful voice pipes in. What if the closest he can get to saying “I choose you” is “I won’t choose them”?  He gently takes the book from John’s relaxed fingers, marks his page, and turns out the light, continuing to work in the dim light of his laptop.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Sherlock startles awake in total darkness. Unfamiliar smells. Someone crying out. Pain in his back.

A sudden fist of panic bolts him upright, breathing hard. _He’s still there, still a prisoner_.

No. His mind begins to wake and process the data of his senses. He isn’t shackled. The stink of his cell is gone. And it’s too warm.

With a shudder, Sherlock is awake and rational, his mind orienting himself inside the Inn in Beddgelert. He’d fallen asleep at his work table, the hard chair digging into the old scar tissue of his back. How long? His laptop battery is dead. Too dark to see where he’d left his phone. The river babbles just outside the window. Standing to stretch his sore back, he can see a few stars, but no moon.

A muffled cry behind him whirls Sherlock around. It wasn’t part of the nightmare – it’s _John_. In the dark, he hears him thrashing in the blankets. He darts to the bedside.

“John – what is it? What’s wrong?”

No response. He fumbles with the small lamp on the bedside table, squinting painfully at the sudden light, but finds John still asleep. While Sherlock watches, John’s face contorts – brow deeply furrowed, eyelids pinched tight and fluttering with REM sleep. He suddenly rolls onto his face and gives a long, strangled cry, his whole body shaking.

Sherlock is no stranger to John’s nightmares, but he’s always been on the other side of a bedroom door – he’s never seen John so vulnerable and anguished, as if the pain he’s experienced can only manifest in his sleep… and to _see_ it written on his face…

Instinctively, Sherlock turns to their suitcase dropped in the corner, but his heart sinks. He’d been so careful to think of everything – from John’s soft pajamas to his phone charger – but he hadn’t anticipated _nightmares_.

He hadn’t brought the violin.

For as long as John had lived at Baker Street, there had been nightmares. One such night, feeling helpless and trying to block out the sounds of John fighting his demons, he’d picked up his violin and begun to play. Remarkably, John had quieted quickly. After that, whenever he heard the telltale sounds of John reliving some horror in his sleep, he’d played, and John had calmed.

While they never discussed the content of the nightmares, John was quite proud of the phenomenon, telling his therapist how his flatmate had found the tried and true cure. Since moving back to Baker Street, Sherlock had heard him have a nightmare only once, on the second night. For John’s sake, as well as for Rosie sleeping fitfully in her crib, Sherlock had played. John had been soothed. In the four months that followed, he had not heard another. He had begun to hope that John felt safe at the flat.

In the pool of lamplight, John’s face twists in sorrow. Tears stream silently from his eyes. He’s muttering, until Sherlock clearly makes out the words, _“He’s m’friend… please… my friend…”_

Sherlock grips the bedclothes painfully.  He is reliving Sherlock’s death, obviously triggered by his anxiety over Sherlock falling today. _Damnit. My fault._

John’s anguish pulls him back to Bart’s. The frantic race to get everything in place. The horror as he’d realized John had returned and would witness the false suicide. Clever John. _For the best_ , _he’ll be safe_ his mind had calculated. _Monster_ his heart had cried. Too late. The clockwork was already in motion, no way to stop it. It had taken all of his willpower to stay limp on the pavement, cricket ball clenched against his side to silence his pulse, to convince John, clever John, that he was dead.

“John – wake up,” Sherlock commands in a deep, shaky voice, gripping John’s shoulder and giving him a shake. “You’re having a nightmare, it isn’t real - _wake up,_ John.”

John lurches away from his grasp, rolling onto his other side with a yell, still caught in the terrible dream.

“ _Mph - m’falling!_ ” John cries out suddenly, his arms spasming as if to catch himself. _“Sherlock!”_

 _Careful._ His actions seem to influence the nightmare, now blending the horrors of John’s past with the trauma of the day. _Bloody hell._ He paces the carpet around the bed. It could be over in moments, or it could last much longer. The thought of John alone in his dream, suffering, out of his reach, is maddening.

Suddenly he stops mid-pace, a dangerous idea crystallizing in his mind. One glance at John sobbing in his sleep and he knows he has to try.

Gingerly. he eases into the bed behind his thrashing friend, the person he cares more for in all this world and the person he _keeps_ hurting. In a sudden movement, he slides in close and wraps his arms around him tightly, as he had on the ridge. John struggles against his chest and Sherlock is about to release him – he’s only making it worse – when John gasps, _“Don’t let go!”_ Sherlock obeys.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against John’s ear, hoping it will make its way into the fabric of John’s dream. “I won’t let go. I’ve got you, John, you’re safe. It’s alright, you’re safe…” He maintains his strong pressure on John’s limbs, holding him tight to his chest, and continues the rumbling stream of assurances. And yes. Perceptibly, John quiets.

He should let go now. He knows he should. But John is in his arms, warm, the scent of him intoxicating, his soft hair brushing his face. He rationalizes with himself. Better to let him get into a deeper sleep cycle before he tries to move, lest he startle him and bring up very awkward questions.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, John…”

He feels a subtle spasm of muscle under his arms, a quick intake of breath. With a pulse of mortification, Sherlock realizes it’s too late. He tries to squirm away, but John’s hand moves with surprising speed, gripping Sherlock’s forearm, holding him in place. He can’t breathe..

“John - I’m sorry - you - a nightmare-” he stammers.

John grips Sherlock’s arms tightly, his own breathing ragged. Sherlock can’t read his face. After several long moments, he begins to wonder if John is actually still asleep when suddenly he rolls over, their faces a few inches apart.

_He’s awake. He didn’t pull away. He’s held me here._

John’s chest heaves as if he’s run a sprint; his eyes are wide, dilated, locked onto Sherlock’s, reading something there. Rather than seeming annoyed or confused by Sherlock’s presence in his bed, John seems flung open, raw, the tear-tracks on his cheeks still wet.

Sherlock feels a seismic pulse that shakes him to his roots. The vault is crashing apart. Nothing he can do will hold back what has been straining for release. Trembling, Sherlock watches a metamorphosis take place on John’s face - the bare wonder taking on a familiar steel, a hint of smile, a spark in his eyes that always means _the game is on_.

“Jesus, Sherlock, come here,” he whispers, and slides his hand into Sherlock’s curls, pulling his face toward his. John’s breath flutters over his skin as their lips touch.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steamy steam steam ahead!

 

Sherlock leans incrementally forward, the brush of lips blooming into a true kiss as John feels the pressure returned, the permission granted. All sleepiness evaporates and John rushes into him, lips parting, a little moan escaping into his mouth. Sherlock finds his hands gripping John’s back, pulling him closer. His mental functioning his overwhelmed by a swell of oxytocin. Their chests crush together, hips tangling.

John pulls a hand from his curls and threads it between them, grasping Sherlock’s sudden and shocking erection, grinning against his lips as their kissing changes speed. Sherlock arches into John’s hand – he can’t help it – his body is moving of its own accord, as if long encoded in his cells is the exact method in which to make love to John Watson.

Though their mouths are too occupied for words, Sherlock feels a constant stream of communication between their bodies. A finger tentatively tugs at a hem and a shirt is hastily removed. A kiss strays to a throat and the throat is bared. A thrust of hips is returned with equal and greater force.

Sherlock begins to lose sense of time. It has either been an extremely charged few minutes, or half an eternity of tasting, licking, biting, the fire building between them, a sheen of sweat on their skin. Somehow they’re naked, though he doesn’t exactly remember each article being removed. Perhaps they incinerated, simply combusting from their combined heat.

John has established a rhythm against his body with hips and hand and cock. Sherlock responds like a tide, surging against him, slick and salty, moaning. A wave is building in him, towering, breaking, and he gasps John’s name, his thrusts rapidly losing strength and cadence.

John has been watching him, his eyes hungry.  Summoning a little remaining energy, Sherlock grasps his cock with a slick hand, marveling when John begins to buck against him. He watches with wonder as John’s own orgasm erupts, face flushed, fingers digging into Sherlock’s flesh, his moans strangled into high, breathy gasps. John suddenly wilts against his chest. Their bodies ease into decrescendo, panting, heartbeats thundering.

As their sweat cools, Sherlock draws the bedclothes over them. Beneath the blankets, Sherlock’s fingertips skate gently, reverently, over his skin, ensuring nothing remains untouched. John shivers pleasantly, puffing tiny moans into his hair.

“Oh Sherlock,” John breathes, barely a whisper against his ear, “I love you…”

The utterance does something alchemical to Sherlock’s blood. His throat constricts and tears sting his eyes. He knows. God, how he finally knows. John’s body has been chanting this to him like a mantra - and not just tonight, with their naked flesh. Sherlock’s known for years, but was never allowed to admit it if John wouldn’t say it. How many exposed looks had John averted, how many fierce scowls of jealousy? It doesn’t matter anymore. He hugs John’s solid warmth to him, every cell singing.

“I love you, John,” he whispers back, blurting in a rush,  “I love you so much – I've always loved you...”

They cling together, feeling one another’s heart beat. Sherlock marvels at this metamorphosis, at bodies entwined, the slickness between them something primordial, the musk of their lovemaking a scent that now occupies a sacred space in his mind palace. Sherlock gently nibbles an earlobe.

“Let me get us a cloth,” he says huskily, and John, still crushed on top of him, obediently rolls aside, a placid smile on his sleepy face.

Sherlock cleans himself quickly at the bathroom sink, glancing up at the mirror at his pale chest tattooed with the rosettes of John’s hard kisses. Every mundane detail swells in significance. His _lover’s_ toothbrush. The cup he drank from _the night they made love._ He grins at himself, a wave of effervescent happiness flushing his cheeks, sparking in his eyes.

He returns quickly with a warm, wet flannel and ceremoniously cleans John’s belly and thighs, grinning at the sweetness of his cock in repose. He ducks to give it a small kiss, eliciting a giggle from John, eyes closed, curled on his side like a cat in a sunbeam.

Sherlock clicks off the lamp, tosses the flannel in the general direction of the bathroom, and scrambles under the blankets. He spoons John from behind, his arm tucked around his belly and peppering his neck with small kisses. John grins sleepily and snuggles tighter against him, but all his lust has been spent. Sherlock realizes he’s fallen asleep.

He scowls. How could John sleep after such a seismic shift in their relationship? Sleep is the farthest thing from _his_ mind. Every nerve is aflame with new information, his mind combing through each facet of their lovemaking that he can reconstruct. The surge of hormones makes his recollection unreliable, but what he can recall with certainty he encapsulates in his mind palace. Just reliving it in his mind causes him to stir again, but John’s deep breaths tell Sherlock he will need to be patient for more discoveries.

As he is categorizing the many sensations of John’s skin pressed against him, the inevitable effects of his own orgasm’s prolactin take hold. Sherlock drifts to sleep, his face mashed into John’s soft hair.

 

...

 

Morning light. Unfamiliar bed. Sound of a river. Smells like John. Naked?

Sherlock startles into full wakefulness, finding himself alone and tangled in the bedclothes. His memories of the night tumble back to him – at least, he _thinks_ they were memories. The bed has certainly been occupied by two, and glancing down at his chest he confirms John’s love bites are truly there.

He flops back into the bedclothes, gripping a pillow with a fierce pulse of emotion - something tricky composed of relief, happiness, and anxiety. This is what he’s wanted. For years, he’s ached for it. But he’s also rather gotten used to his state of purgatory, had convinced himself they could coexist side by side and it would be enough.

To know John loves him – has loved him for so long – and will continue to love him lest he drive him away… He can’t predict what will come of it. He doesn’t know the answer. This is both dazzling _and_ disarming.

The door to their room clicks and Sherlock squeezes his face against the pillow. _Here it is. It’s happening._

He listens to the soft footfalls of John’s slippered feet on the carpet, the crackle of a plastic bag, smells tea and something sweet. He follows the sounds of John puttering around the room and then puzzles over a long stretch of silence.

“Alright, Sherlock, I know you’re awake,” John scolds warmly. “Come out of that cocoon, or do I need to join you?”

Sherlock’s muffled voice drifts from under the bedclothes. “ _Join_.”

John immediately leaps into the bed and dives beneath the covers, his speed surprising Sherlock. He quickly recovers, pulling him into a tangle of kissing, their rolling, laughing, full-body embrace as playful as two boys wrestling.

“What did you bring?” Sherlock asks breathily between snogs.

“You tell me, detective.”

“Tea, obviously, and... pastry?”

“Oh very good, would you like one?”

In response, Sherlock tugs off the offending clothes that John has had the nerve to cover himself with. He eagerly assists, letting the tea go cold as they discover more about their new territory beneath the blankets.

 

…

 

The bathroom is full of steam as they take a long, slow shower together afterward. Sherlock slowly washes each part of John, noting which places get the most reaction - the back of his knees being the most pleasantly surprising and earning them their first shower fellatio.

 _“Jesus,”_ John gasps, pulling Sherlock up to hold him in the stream of hot water. “I feel like a ruddy horny teenager - I’ve never done it so much in so short a time.”

“Nor I,” Sherlock admits, his lips buzzing pleasantly and the taste of John in his mouth. John looks as if he'd like to ask follow-up questions, but takes the hint, instead doing things with his thighs and fingertips that reassert to Sherlock he must inquire into John's _not gayness._ Perhaps _later._ Sherlock admits it is not the best time to question John’s sexuality while he ruts into his hand and pants against his mouth.

 

…

 

They towel off together off in the small bathroom, stomachs growling audibly. Sherlock's mind drifts to the tea and sweet pastry.

“I hope you don’t mind,” John says hesitantly, “but while I was out getting our tea, I booked the room another night.”

“What?” Sherlock stops mid-towel, scowling. “But you need to get back to Rosie.”

“Not to stay for the _night,_ understand,” John pinches him gently on an exposed cheek. “But checkout was an hour ago - I’m sure you quite forgot. This way, we can take a slow day together. We’ll take the night train back, I already talked to Mrs. H and booked the tickets. Rosie would have been in bed when we got back either way. We’ll see her first thing in the morning.”

Sherlock’s frown melts. “That was clever, John.” He steps close to wrap him in his towel and kiss him, sweetly now, without the fury of the hurricane he’d felt last night. “And… thank you.”

John pulls back a little to eye him soberly, rubbing his fingertips down Sherlock's rough cheek. “Thought we might want a little time to ourselves to get acquainted with… _this.”_

“You… alright?” Sherlock asks with sudden trepidation.

John considers him with serious, blue-grey eyes, and tightens his grip on Sherlock’s lower back.

“Course I’m okay,” he says quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “Never been better in my life.”

Throat too tight to respond, Sherlock returns his deep stare and nods.

“We’ve been idiots,” John whispers, swallowing hard. “It’s always been between us. _This.”_

Sherlock pushes through the tightness. “You… weren’t gay.”

John ducks his eyes, looking abashed, then bites his lip and confronts Sherlock with his jaw squared, a glint of the soldier in the way he holds his head. “ _You_ … were _married_ to your _work_.”

They stare at one another, wrapped in the same towel.

“Well,” Sherlock breathes. “Glad we’ve finally cleared that up.” He begins to giggle. John’s composure cracks and he leans his forehead against Sherlock chest, wheezing with laughter.

Sherlock tightens John into a hug as their mirth fades into a sweet, profound fondness, enjoying just holding and being held.

His eyes catch on John’s bare shoulder. There are three small lines just to the left of his shoulder blade, thin red scratches less than a centimeter long, slightly scabbed, fresh. Too thin and close together to have been made by his own nails during their frotting.

Sherlock grips John suddenly, an explosion of understanding erupting in his mind. 

“Oh - OH!”

He pulls back from their embrace, kisses John quickly on the mouth, then darts from the bathroom, towel forgotten.

“Sherlock?” John calls after him, puzzled, wrapping the towel around his middle. “What did you just realize?”

“Claw marks, John!” Sherlock cries jubilantly, waving one of the autopsy photos at him from across the room. “I was right! The brother is innocent!”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another little chapter to soften your week - and a bit more to come. :) I hope you enjoy.

Tossing the photo onto the table, Sherlock digs into the rubble of their bags and clothes in the corner. He roots around impatiently for his magnifying lens, finding it tangled in the side pocket of yesterday’s shorts. He also grabs John’s shirt and closely inspects the tightly woven cloth, the strong scent of sweat and sunblock and _John_ on the fabric. A few grey threads are lightly plucked out of the weft at the shoulder. _As expected._

Sherlock strides back to the small table by the window, pulling the rest of the autopsy photos out of the disheveled pile and holding the magnifying lense close to the papers. Under the lens, a small blemish on the victim’s upper arm jumps into view, clearly showing three symmetrical scratches. Just like John’s.

He had noted it during his initial review of the photos. It had obviously not been a result from the man’s fall – the marks were too regular, not like the other rough, random abrasions. But the victim had a cat – Sherlock had inquired. Cats often scratched their owners who failed to notice their mercurial boundaries. The man must have annoyed the cat earlier that day. He had filed it away as clutter.

“Idiot,” he scolds himself absently, peering at the photos for other possible scratches he’d overlooked. _Yes. There._ Peeking out from beneath the hairline. This one was smaller, just pinpricks, really, but clearly in a regular alignment of three _._

John has followed him, wrapped up in the bath towel. He pinks a bit at the sight of Sherlock striding up to him, triumphant and naked, photos in hand.

“You need to see this,” Sherlock rumbles, frog-marching him back into the tiny bathroom, pivoting John to see his own back in the mirror and indicating the injury with a gentle touch of his fingertip.

“John, you have three symmetrically-spaced cuts on your back.”

“I do?” He scowls. “Oh, _that._ Yea – my backpack strap was bothering me on the way down, chafing a bit. Thought it was just the pack. Must have scratched it during my fall.”

“No, John,” Sherlock hums, close to him. “You fell forward, you couldn’t have cut your back, and not in this regular manner.”

“But you pulled me up – you were on _top_ of me by the end,” John smirks at him in the mirror, “and I was on my back.”

“Yes, true, but it would have taken three very sharp, well-placed stones to cut you like this, and through your shirt, which is not torn.”

John furrows his brow, twisting to get a closer look in the mirror. “Looks like a _cat_ scratch.” He gives Sherlock a sudden, mischievous smile in the mirror. “Oy, hang on–”

“–it wasn’t _me_ , John, they’re too narrow for human nails.”

“Ah.” His smile dims. “Right, of course.”

“But you’re absolutely right, they look like _claw_ marks, and very recent – still slightly swollen, but scabbed. We overlooked it on the ridge – your hands had absorbed most of the impact.” Sherlock quickly takes John’s hands, scrutinizing the palms. “See how these abrasions are irregular, wider?” He quickly touches a palm to his lips, releasing him and brandishing the photo.

“Now look at this.” Sherlock holds up the autopsy photo for John and offers him the lens, which he takes with interest.

“What’s this...” he trails off, peering closely at the dead man’s arm. Sherlock waits anxiously for the moment he loves best: when John sees the connections, too. “Bloody hell, will you look at that,” John mutters. “It’s the very same.”

He steps away to fetch John’s light pack, extracting the small, silver camera and thumbing on the power. Standing in the middle of the room, he scrolls quickly through the photos when he feels a light touch on his bare back. John has joined him, standing close and peering over his shoulder.

The look together, yesterday’s mountains flashing by in miniature on the small screen. John had taken shots looking back on the narrow ridge from their relatively safe vantage of the saddle. He stops suddenly, finding a photo of himself on hands and knees in his walking gear, nose to the dust, scrutinizing a footprint with his lens. The angle is not flattering.

“John, really. I look ridiculous.”

“I figured I’d tell you it was for the blog – a glimpse of the detective in the field.” He smiles warmly. “Really, you were adorable. I can say that plainly, now. There’s lots of times I wish I’d been able to take a photo.” 

“What? When?”

“Oh, I dunno,” John hems, suddenly embarrassed. “When you drink your tea, but still have those huge goggles on after an experiment. Or when you’re _in your mind palace,_ but clearly taking a kip on the sofa.”

He feels warmed by the idea of John secretly observing him. He is not accustomed to being the one under scrutiny.

The next file is a video, the panorama John had shot. He thumbs ‘play’ and the mountains move gently from right to left as John had slowly pivoted, taking in the ridge, the hulk of Snowdon up ahead, the blue-green mountains rolling off to a humid horizon. He hears a tiny, tinny version of his voice say off-screen, _“John, pass me the camera, will you? I’ve found something in the victim’s tracks.”_

And _yes_ ! _There._ A sudden dark blur in the corner of the screen. The image shudders. In the video, John makes a small sound of surprise. Sherlock’s hand jumps to pause the footage, reverses, then zooms in with the little buttons. Though a bit blurry, they can clearly see–

“ _Feathers,”_ John says, awed.

“I remember, now,” Sherlock rumbles. “I’d heard a soft impact just before you fell. The chaos of the moment drove it from my mind.”

“Incredible –” John breathes. “I was _hit._ We both were. By a–”

“Kestrel,” they say in unison.

“I saw it from below on our walk out!” John gasps. “I don’t remember seeing it on the ridge, though–”

“You were preoccupied with the camera. It may have been attracted to the shine of the camera’s body. I was looking down. A shy creature, it would not have made itself conspicuous without reason. A bird of prey can move at terrific speeds when hunting… or defending its nest, which may explain why the surviving brother has no recollection of seeing it, either.”

“But I don’t remember the impact.”

“Shock, John. Do you remember hitting the ridge and sliding?”

“No,” John admits. “I remember coming _to_ on the ridge, with you _on_ me.” He scowls. “We need to tell the NWP to shut that trail down til they’ve gotten the wildlife branch up there.”

The attacker confirmed, Sherlock taps the movie, curious to move ahead to the other photos to see if they’d accidentally captured another glimpse of the kestrel. The video continues to play. The whole picture lurches to the side.

In his hands, John’s voice on the screen makes a small, strangled cry. Sherlock realizes with a pulse of horror that the camera had continued to record throughout John’s fall. Next to him, John tenses, shifting his weight between his feet, folding his arms protectively.

A dull, horrible fist of anxiety sinks into Sherlock’s solar plexus. This video could have been the last recorded moment he had of John. Of John _dying._ Had things not turned out differently.

He watches, terribly enthralled as the camera slams into the ground, grass and stones sliding past, the mountains spinning upside down. Scree and grass obscure the view, but not John’s cursing, high-pitched and terrified.

“Sherlock, turn it off,” he says, tense.

“Can’t,” he swallows hard. “Evidence.”

“Off, Sherlock,” John demands. In response, as if a magnet had propelled him from John’s side, Sherlock spins away and slips through the bathroom door, quickly locking it behind him.

“Oy! Sherlock, open up,” he barks, his anxious voice muffled through the door.

Sherlock ignores him. He can’t turn away. He hears his own cry in the recording, senses the moment when he must have leapt, the video slurring downward faster. Their yells are guttural, frantic, animal, terrible.

Sherlock’s stomach lurches. He feels a freezing paralysis in his limbs and sinks to the cold tile floor, the camera gripped in his shaking, white-tipped fingers. His heart beats furiously in his throat. He can’t breathe. _What is this, what’s happening? John would know._

“John,” he hears himself say in a faint, reedy voice.

_Oh. Locked him out. Bad move, that._

Frozen, he watches as John’s slide stops and the camera lurches backwards, recording Sherlock’s frantic attempts to tug John back up onto the ridge. He can hear their heaving breath, sees pieces of shoulders and torsos, dusty and slightly blood-smeared. His voice, cracking and strained, repeats “I’ve got you,” over and over, the lens pitched up at the sky.

And then, the camera sees what they had not, preoccupied as they had been. The solid silhouette of a bird slides through the sky, angling sharply down toward the ridge.

The door is shaking. Funny, that. Wonder why? With a sharp crack, the metal of the sliding bolt snaps and the bathroom door slams open, John hurtling through. _Right. Of course. John is here._ Worry and fury twist on his features, his face ashen. He rushes over to Sherlock, knotted into a tight ball of pale limbs and knobby joints, and takes the camera out of his brittle hands, decisively clicking the power button. Their small, recorded cries cease abruptly.

John’s arms are around him. With surprising strength, he pulls Sherlock off the cold floor and into his toweled lap. Though the smaller of them, John is somehow folding him tightly to his chest, planting hard kisses on brow and cheek, hands brushing aside hair to look into his eyes, assessing, fretful.

“Breathe, hey, look at me,” John says gently, all the fury gone from his voice. “Listen to me breathe, follow the rhythm of it. Ready now?”

John’s breath puffs onto his cheek. His own lungs feel tight and frozen in his chest. But John just keeps breathing, and gradually, with his warm, firm arms around him, with the sound of his breath, he breathes, too. His pulse slows.

“Why were you watching that?” John asks gently.

“Evidence,” he responds meekly.

“Bullocks,” John says quietly. “You’re punishing yourself.”

“Am I? Couldn’t breathe. Or move.”

“Panic attack, love,” John hums at him, brushing the hair back from his face.

 _Love?_ John’s endearment sits in his mind like a pleasantly burning coal.

“Ah. Yes, that sounds… accurate. I’m better. Now.”

“If you had to watch it, you should have stayed with me.” John bites his lip. “I think we can agree now we’re fairly stronger _together_ than alone.”

Sherlock glances at the door with its ruined lock. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Sherlock,” John says evenly, a hint of his repressed fury kindling in his tone, “please understand me. You throw a door between us, and I will break it down.” He swallows. “Every time.”

“I didn’t want it to upset you,” Sherlock says lamely. “The video. Your nightmare–”

“My _nightmare_ is not being able to get to you when you need it.”

Sherlock nods and leans into John's shoulder. He understands. More than he can say.   


“John,” he hums.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll always catch you.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

“Let’s get you some clothes and over to the bed,” John says quietly, easing him off his lap.

Sherlock feels where he would usually rattle of his armor, brush aside John’s help. But it doesn’t come. He lets John hoist him to his feet. He’s a little wobbly, but not faint.

“Steady now. Hold on to the sink. Be back in a moment.”

Seemingly satisfied that Sherlock won’t fall over, John walks quickly into the room. Sherlock glances into the mirror, startled by the ashen, haunted version of himself who glares back. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly to relish his functioning lungs and makes a note to research the chemical and hormonal triggers of panic attacks. John pads back in with his dressing gown and helps him slip it on. He makes no comment about the scars on Sherlock’s back, though he sees his eyes flick there briefly.

“Let’s see how your legs are doing.”

John slides his arm around Sherlock’s back and they shuffle to the tidy bed – John had hastily settled the blankets. His steady, earnest sweetness nearly undoes him. This is more than John in doctor-mode. Sherlock has a sudden vision: the two of them, old, pottering around some cottage, John helping his crotchety old lover from the loo. The thought makes him wobble.

“Easy there,” John gently steadies him with a strong hand.

“I’m _fine_ , John,” Sherlock nettles, though it has no venom.

“You will be. Now, sit.” He pushes Sherlock gently onto the bed, propping him up against all the pillows and planting a soft kiss on his forehead. He hands him the cold cup of tea and leaves the bag of pastry within reach. “When your stomach has settled, try to eat a little something.”

Sherlock sips the cold tea, feeling warmed by John’s care as he bustles around the room bare-chested, towel about his waist, hair mussed. He brings Sherlock’s laptop and paperwork to the bed and sets his mobile into his hand with a small grin.

“Am I allowed to work, doctor?” Sherlock crooks an eyebrow at him.

“I can think of few antidotes that would do you better. I seem to recall we have a man’s innocence hanging in the balance, and potential victims to keep off that ridge.”

Sherlock grins at him, feeling it rooted in his belly.

 

…

 

As John had predicted, the casework pushes his anxious thoughts aside. Even slouched in bed, it feels good to _do_ something. He begins a rapid-fire correspondence with Meredith.

“John, come here,” he commands into the silence. Sherlock cringes at his tone, clears his throat, and softens it. “Stand here in the light so I can photograph your scratch.” John, mid-way through dressing, comes to the bedside and pulls off his shirt. The simple action of John disrobing for him, without a second thought, stirs him beneath the blankets.

Sherlock takes a close-up photo of the claw marks, and another showing the relative position on John’s back, but is very careful to exclude a wine-colored love bite near his neck. Buttoning his shirt, John sees his eyes and a flash of worry crosses his face.

“What is it?”

Sherlock feels his throat tighten and takes a deep breath, willing the cortisol in his bloodstream to stand down (he’d done some fast research).

“I. Need to send the video. From yesterday. As evidence.”

John nods curtly, immediately understanding. He retrieves the little silver camera from where it had been forgotten on the bathroom floor, perching at the foot of the bed and pulling the laptop to him, tipping it away from Sherlock’s view. With clipped and efficient movements, John pops out the memory card, taps and swipes the keyboard. He hands it back.

“There. It’s attached to the email I have open.”

Sherlock takes the laptop from him, their eyes snagging briefly.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. John leans over, ruffling his hair and kissing him quickly, then jumps up to finish packing. _Cases will be like this,_ he realizes, all of their usual ease and symbiosis, interwoven with _affection_.

John putters around the room, dressing, packing the bags, laying out Sherlock’s clothes. With a terse exhale, Sherlock snaps the laptop shut.

“Done?”

“Meredith has everything she needs to prove the brother’s innocence.”

“And the ridge? The nest?”

“The NWP is closing it off and an ornithologist will be investigating. With a drone.”

“Really? Hope the birds don’t attack it,” John mutters ruefully, sitting close to Sherlock on the edge of the bed. He lightly brushes a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear, eyeing him closely. “Your color’s looking better. Feeling up to a stroll?”

With a wave of giddiness, Sherlock abruptly pulls him down to the bed, making it very clear what he’s feeling up for. He quickly undoes the buttons on John’s shirt to playful protests.

“I can’t seem to stay dressed today,” John chuckles as his trousers and pants are tossed to the floor.

Sherlock sweeps the papers and laptop aside, straddling him, rolling their erections together and covering his chest with kisses. He stops abruptly, staring at John’s chest.

“What?” John asks breathlessly.

Sherlock touches his skin with hesitant fingertips. “There are small bruises along your ribs. From my hands.” John cranes his head up to look.

“So there are. It’s alright, they don’t hurt.”

“I... I can’t tell–” Sherlock stutters, “If you received them during your rescue, or our lovemaking.”

John’s eyes burn into him and he pulls him to his chest. “Either way, it was a rescue, love.” Taking his cock in hand, John erases all worries from his mind.

 

…

 

Temporarily sated, finally dressed, they amble around the little flinty town. Though they are strangers here, Sherlock is acutely aware when they leave the safe confines of their room as a couple. It feels raw and sensitive, like newly-healed skin.

When John experimentally weaves their fingers together on the pavement, it sends a bolt up his arm. He squeezes back.

They browse through a few stores. Sherlock becomes bored, eased only by the exciting new development of public hand-holding, seeing when he can steal a kiss behind displays of T-shirts or postcards. And then he sees the stuffed dragons and races off, leaving John to his own browsing.

They eventually emerge from the shop with a box of locally-made fudge for Mrs. Hudson and a fuzzy, vividly red stuffed Welsh dragon for Rosie.

“Here,” John says a little shyly. “No sense in waiting.”

He hands Sherlock a paper-wrapped parcel he must have purchased when Sherlock had been preoccupied selecting Rosie’s dragon. Tearing the paper away, Sherlock uncovers a hardbound copy of the Mabinogion with gold-edged pages, the red cover emblazoned with a dragon woven into an intricate celtic knot. Blinking sudden moisture from his eyes, he pulls John to him for a long, deep kiss.

 

…

 

Back at the inn, they collect their bags and John goes ahead to check out at the front desk. Sherlock peeks into drawers and drops to all fours on the carpet, casting his eyes under the bed and behind the dresser for any straggling items. John had been very thorough. A last look in the bathroom shows him a little bottle of complimentary lotion. He uncaps it, the chamomile scent he’d smelled on John’s skin after his shower, and during their lovemaking, squeezing his heart. He pockets it and turns to leave, giving one last glance at the room with its small table and single rumpled bed where everything had changed.

 

…

 

The lights of a town shine briefly through the window of their tiny night train cabin. The sway and hum of the carriage makes Sherlock sleepy. That, and the enormous wave of prolactin overwhelming his bloodstream.

John’s sweat cools on his skin, arms wrapped around him, the two of them spooned tightly together on the lower bunk. John’s covertly purchased tube of lubricant rests half-empty on the miniature sink. Sherlock fails to stifle an enormous yawn.

“Oh, you want another go?” John hums in his ear, nibbling the earlobe and grazing his fingertips along his thigh. Sherlock chuckles thickly, pulling him tighter. “I should clean us up,” John mutters. Sherlock tightens his grip on his arms around his chest.

“Mm, not yet.”

John relaxes against him, his breath gentle on the back of his neck.

“John,” Sherlock says hesitantly. “When we return, will you join me in the bedroom downstairs?”

“Of course,” he says with a grin.

“Every night?”

“Absolutely,” John chuckles, kissing his neck and jaw.

“I don’t know how I’ll be able to reserve all of my desire for you _at night,_ ” Sherlock frowns, feeling genuinely concerned.

“There’s naps,” John grins, “at least for a few years. Then school. I'll come home for lunch,” he winks.

_Years._

“You’re really staying,” Sherlock breathes, scowling when he realizes he’s said it out loud. John suddenly awkwardly shifts, straddling him on the tiny bunk. He looks down at him very seriously, his hands cradling his face.

“Yes, I am. Of course I am. You couldn’t possibly get rid of me. I don’t care how many heads you dissect on the kitchen table, you’re absolutely stuck with me.”

Sherlock pulls him to his chest.

After a long, quiet moment, John finally eases off of him and runs the tap in the tiny cabin sink. Their berth is so small that Sherlock can continue to stroke his bare thighs while he cleans himself, marveling at every little bump of gooseflesh.

“Rosie will be happy to see us,” Sherlock muses, his mind wandering toward home.

“Course she will,” John grins, a sparkle in his eye. “She’s been waiting ages for us to sort ourselves out as her proper dads.”

John’s words have the desired effect of striking him speechless. John looks down on him fondly.

“Yes,” Sherlock finally utters, his throat tight. “I imagine she has.”

“You sleepy? I may as well kip on my bunk, there’s no way we can both sleep comfortably on one.”

“Sleepy?” Sherlock grins through a predatory growl, all sleepiness evaporating as he lunges off the bunk and surrounds John, nipping at his neck and reaching for the tube of lubricant, pressing his sudden erection against John’s still-slippery cleft. "I’ve only just gotten my breath.”

Pushing back against him with a groan, John pulls him down onto the bunk, which takes some creative maneuvering. “I admit,” he says with a gasp as Sherlock slides the lube against him, easing him open with gentle, insistent fingertips, “I never expected you to be such an insatiable top.”

Finding his rhythm, Sherlock can only gasp his name in response.

 

…

 

**_221B, the present_ **

 

Sherlock wakes at 4:47am to find a small bare foot pressed against his face. Their tiny daughter, as predicted, is taking up the majority of the mattress between them, head resting on John’s blanket-covered calves. Not daring to move too much, Sherlock hugs her feet to his chest and nestles his face against John’s shoulder, his breath deep and even with peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Now that he’s awake, Sherlock’s mind spins. It drifts to the case, but he pushes it aside. His little family is long overdue for a proper ramble. Perhaps a jaunt to Epping Forest. The idea planted, his mind settles into planning. Do Rosie’s boots still fit? With her foot pressed against his chest, he tries to assess it’s length. He’ll surprise them after breakfast. And pack a picnic. Yes, it’s just what they all need. What _he_ needs, he thinks with a sleepy smile.

A ramble. With his _family._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading along with me as I wrote. This has been a total joy and your encouragement and love of the story lifted me up and spurred me on. Next, I'm headed into a magical Johnlock world, adding more chapters to The Man in the Iron Collar.
> 
> May you have a peaceful ramble ahead of you, wherever you are.
> 
> xo Mama'o


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